Page 67 of Quinn, By Design

“Don’t leave.”

Meaningless words when his actions and the dramatic changes in his workspace screamed “I’m moving on.”

No new frames only told half the tale. Niall was working on Peter’s half-finished piece on a Saturday, not using the Mondays she’d handed back to him. The other half of the story leaked through his small resentments. He objected to her filling his fruit bowl, cooking him the occasional meal, whereas he’d offered her cake and conversation and a space to grieve too many times to number. He’d locked her out, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself.

“You lied by omission,” she whispered to the shadows sharing her car. “You didn’t tell me about the exhibition.”

Fear beat a relentless tattoo in her blood because she’d hurt him. She loved him, and if the major gallery he’d been booked with spread the word he was unreliable, no other major gallery would take a chance on him for years. Realising the harm she’d caused, she screamed every cuss she’d learnt as a child, filling the car with curses.

Damn me to hell because I lied too.

Lucy hadn’t told him about her demons; she was irrationally terrified of having no money, she still blamed herself for not being able to save her mother and gran. Even when she’d had the chance to tell him this morning, she’d frozen. Last night, her girlfriends had issued a new challenge—a week to exorcise her childhood devils. But Clementine and Kelly didn’t know all Lucy’s secrets.

And Niall’s unhappiness had bubbled too near the surface for Lucy to take the risk, especially when she couldn’t put her finger on the cause of his discontent. This morning, she’d promised herself there was time, without realising time had been up days, if not weeks, ago. She dashed a hand across her cheek to swipe away fresh tears. The McTavish wealth repelled him as well.

Automatic doors and sensor lighting guided her safely into her garage. The bright lights stung her eyes, hurrying her from the car and into the quietness of the garden, where the scent of Gran’s beloved gardenias hung in the air. Lucy sank onto the stone bench set amongst them, letting their soft perfume comfort her as it had when she’d first arrived here.

She’d sabotaged whatever she and Niall might have had. At their first meeting, she’d accused him of theft and fraud as a distraction from missing Grandpa. He’d served her sandwiches and tea in mismatched crockery and absorbed every blow she’d delivered. Her grief-charged rage had set the tone for their relationship. Niall had been a stranger, yet he’d provided a bulwark at her back when she’d worried about money, and when they’d met the over-perfumed Tomas Bechet.

He'd allowed her to hide in his workshop Monday after Monday and pretend she was helping.

An honourable man, who saw her as an obligation, while she’d been falling in love for the first time in her life.

He’d pitied the grieving granddaughter and resented the antiques heiress.

“I don’t want to be seen as less or more but equal.” She sighed to the night breeze. Lifetimes together aren’t built on power games or secrets.

She pushed herself to her feet, her limbs dragging on the walk to the door. Her house smelled of Niall, and that was pure imagination. His woody fragrance might linger in her room because he’d left a few of his clothes and toiletries there, but nowhere else. She baulked at her bedroom door, unwilling to sleep alone in the bed they’d shared. Arriving in this house as a world-weary ten-year-old, she’d claimed she was too old to climb into Gran and Grandpa’s bed. Gran had poohpoohed her objections after Lucy’s first nightmare. Night after night, Gran had spooned against Lucy’s back when she couldn’t sleep, ready with a made-up story about one of the shop’s treasures. Her soft-voiced stories were part history lesson, part travelogue and pure comfort.

“I miss you, Gran.”And the safety of discovering I was still lovable.

Why did Niall’s desertion have to be darker and heavier than other losses?

Aching in every cell of her body, she crawled between the sheets of Grandpa and Gran’s bed. Her grandparents had owned the big four-poster all their married life and by example had shown her the best of love. She curled into a tight ball.

When she woke, her body was stiff. Glancing around the room, she was momentarily disoriented, before the memory of her conversation with Niall tumbled back.

“You’ve shown disrespect to my grandpa,” she should have added, “And me. You’ve disrespected me.”

Anger had always worked for her, a crutch to propel her through the worst moments of her life. In the past, a lot of her anger had been self-directed. When her mum had died, she was child enough to accept the blame. Anger deserted her now. Black misery was her new companion, and it made her clear-sighted.

“I wasn’t to blame for Mum’s death.” She rolled her shoulders, shedding doubts that had dogged most of her life. “I made mistakes with Niall, but I won’t take all the blame for his unhappiness. I deserve to be trusted.

“I deserve the right to help.

“I deserve to be loved.”

Lifting her head in the shower, she let warm water cascade over her hair, her face and down her body. She turned around, nudging the temperature up a notch. Hot needles of spray massaged her back, and a plan plopped fully formed into her mind.

A black suit, a white shirt and the reflection in her mirror showed a pale-faced businesswoman, who’d probably spend her life alone. Adding Niall’s green scarf was an act of defiance. In the kitchen, she made tea and started making calls.

“I’ll be late at McTavish’s. If you need me urgently, I can be reached through Henry Dawson’s office.”

I have options, if I choose to use them.

I can change my mind.

I can—I do—refuse to be powerless.

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